


Dead Zone

by yanagi



Series: Tony!SEAL verse [24]
Category: NCIS
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-12-12 13:13:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11737782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yanagi/pseuds/yanagi
Summary: Dead zones and drop-outs are a fact of life. Annoying and inconvenient; until they aren't.





	Dead Zone

This was inspired by a picture that shows up on the net from time to time. A hand holding a cell phone that has the message ‘1:missedcall’ on it. 

//whistle language//

 

One Missed Call.

 

Tony sighed; he hated being in a dead zone, and this one was a doozy. It wasn’t as though they wanted to track some jacked-up serial killer into the outback of nowhere, West Virginia, but he’d holed up out here, and even the local moonshiners wanted him gone.

The problem was the mountains and a lack of towers. The mountains were full of metal-rich rock, and the towers “skipped” the valleys. If you wanted signal, you had to be near or at the top of the mountains. He was, unfortunately, in a valley. He had that circle-and-slash symbol that meant he had no signal at all. 

“Well, shit.” Tony stashed his phone in its pouch and got out the radio that the sheriff had given him. One look told him that it was out of range, too. He silently grumbled about the rules that said they couldn’t use military comms. 

Remy hissed, “Shit?”

“SNAFU. No fuckin’ signal. We’re gonna have t’ do it the old way.” He grumbled about recon without comms.

The old way was interesting; Remy had learned the old way from his grandfather before he died. The language was used by the people around Aas in the Pyrenees mountains to communicate over long distances. Developed in the 1600’s, it was thought to have disappeared, but people who used variations of the same skill exist all over the world; France, Greece, and Spain were well known, but there were even some practitioners in the US. Remy and Tony had done research and developed one more combat-based. They used it when the radios were put out of commission, which wasn’t very often. But it usually saved their butts when the comms went out.

Tony thought for a moment, then whispered, “You do it. Tell Dean and Cos to flank the house, East and West. That’ll leave the sheriff and his deputy North. I wish we’d taken the time to teach Jet and Tim.”

Remy shrugged. “Too damn late now. Hate drop out an’ fuckin’ dead zone. Som’bitch.”

Remy used the knuckle method to whistle, so he stuck one bent finger in his mouth and whistled. //Cos, take East. Dean, take West. Tell Jet, North.// This short, whistled order told Cos to take his two assigned sheriff’s deputies to the east side of the cabin, Dean to take his two to the west, and Gibbs and Sheriff Daily to the north.

//Got it//

Tony glanced at his watch. “Time?”

“Give ‘em ten. An’ keep a fuckin’ eye on the door.”

Tony returned his attention to the front door of the shack, knowing the sheriff had said there was a back door. He, the sheriff, would have an eye on that door in a few moments, Tony hoped. Since he was accompanied by Gibbs, chances were more than good that he would.

Remy tapped Tony’s shoulder, then pointed. Dean had shown himself for a second, his group was almost in place. Tony scanned the area, looking for Cos. He spotted Gibbs instead; he knew Gibbs had shown himself on purpose so that they’d know his group was in place. A quick whistle told them that Cos and his group were also in place.

Someone somewhere must have had it in for them on this case. The perp had run like a rabbit and headed for his home town, probably to lay low with his mother. Unfortunately, she had gone back to West Virginia to settle her late husband’s father’s affairs and decided to stay. So their Seaman 3rd had followed her again and was now holed up in his grandfather’s hunting camp, much to Mom’s dismay. She wasn’t too pleased to find that her son had a habit of strangling lady Marines.

Tony looked toward the location of each of the other teams. He received a flash from a mirror from each of them indicating that they were in place. He yelled, “Go! Go! Go!” and ran for the front door. He hit it with a shoulder and blocked it as it bounced off the wall. Remy followed Tony and charged the suspect, who was sleeping off a drunk on the couch. 

Remy pounced on him while the other three groups smashed in the back door, blocked the windows, and in general created chaos. Joe Barns woke up with Remy’s knee in his gut and Tony sitting on his feet. 

Cos came in. “All clear?”

“All clear. Hook this fuckin’ jackwad up.” Tony nodded to their prisoner.

Dean tossed a pair of cuffs to one of the four deputies that had accompanied them. “Here, you do the honors.”

“Thank ‘e kindly, sir.” The deputy snatched the cuffs out of the air and proceeded to hook Joe up, in the unpleasant way that wasn’t fun. 

They took a few moments to search the cabin thoroughly. Gibbs did point out, “Guys, Mrs. Barns isn’t gonna appreciate a damn mess. She’s wantin’ t’ sell this cracker box.”

Sheriff Daily nodded. “It’s nice, really. Compared to some, it’s a palace. I know one guy, made one out of a hog shed an’ a chicken coop. Still smells a bit on hot, damp days. So ... you guys take it easy or you’ll be cleanin’ up the mess.”

They dragged Joe out of the cabin and spent an hour listening to him whine, “I didn’t do nothin’. What’d I do? You can’t do this to me. I got my rights,” and similar shit. No one paid any attention to him except one deputy who kept telling him to shut up, not that that did much good.

The search revealed a cache of souvenirs; the man had been taking the ladies’ rank patches and one dog tag from each. He was also a stoner of epic proportions; he had a bag of pills, some coke, and a tip of some unidentified white powder that Tim said looked like a speedball. And when Tony said ‘bag’, he meant bag, not a small sandwich-sized bag as was usual; this guy had a quart freezer bag half-full of an assortment of pills that explained the break-ins at two local pharmacies. It was a wonder he hadn’t overdosed on a bad combination of drugs. 

When they finished their search and had bagged and tagged their collection, Sheriff Daily informed them that their way out was by truck down a logging road. Their way in had been on foot. This caused Tim to snicker and Deputy Taylor to demand the story.

The truck turned out to be an old WWII troop transport that the sheriff’s office had gotten on the cheap. They piled in while Barns whined about his rights. Everyone settled in a seat and Deputy Hicks repeated the demand.

So Tim began in true military fashion. “So ... No shit, there we were...” The story kept everyone entertained until they hit the highway. Tim ended, “And so ... Jimmy had an epic bitch fit with Abby as Greek Chorus ... all I could do to keep from laughing in Vance’s damn face.”

Sheriff Daily laughed, and banged the top of the troop truck, which pulled over. “Ed, park near the back door. We’ll take Joe in, book him, do the paperwork, and hand him over. Should take about three hours.” He grinned at the questioning noise from Gibbs. “Jethro, we want him gone.” He turned back to the driver. “You take Gibbs and his team to Ruth’s place an’ get ‘em fed.”

Deputy Jones, Ed, nodded, “Okay, should I wait?”

“An’ how are they gonna get back if you don’t?” The Sheriff climbed back into the truck, shaking his head. Another bang on the top saw them back on the highway.

It wasn’t long before they were at Ruth’s place, which turned out to be a small truck stop near Stony Bottom, a small town strung out along state route #1. The Sheriff’s Station was out in the county and not really near much of anything. 

The stop was small, but clean and neat, with the parking lot trash-free and the building newly painted. They piled out, but Gibbs stopped them. “Rack ‘em.” They all put their assault rifles into a lockbox bolted to the cab, then jumped down to head for the door.

The bell over the door let out a cheery jingle as they entered. A voice from the kitchen called, “Set where ya want, Annamarie’ll be out in a sec.”

Tony just took a place at a double table near the kitchen; he raised an eyebrow and got nods from Tim, Gibbs, and Cos. Dean didn’t care where they sat; neither did Remy.   
Deputy Jones wasn’t consulted; he’d sit where they wanted. 

A girl wearing a nametag and a pretty, lace-bordered apron came out and said, “My name is Annamarie and I’ll be your server today. Would you like water and coffee right away?” She gave them a funny look and smiled a bit hesitantly.

Ed eyed her, then snarked, “Mighty fancy for around here. What’s with all that?” he waved a hand at her apron.

“I’m practicin’ for when I go to college. I’m gettin’ a job at a place there and they’re fancy. So stick a sock in it.” She swatted him on the shoulder and glowered, then turned to Tony with a sickly sweet smile. “Sorry about that; boy’s brain-damaged, I swear. I’ll bring menus when I bring drinks. Okay?” She turned back, exclaiming, “Well, darn! I forgot ... the special of the day is chicken fried steak with cream gravy, peas or green beans, rolls, salad with choice of House, Thousand Island, or Ranch dressing, and pie or cake; drink included.”

Meanwhile, Ed was quietly snickering. Finally he said, “You can’t swat the customers ... or let ‘em get you flustered. I’ll have the special, sweet tea, ranch, pie. An’ I’m tellin’ Mama ya smacked me.”

Annamarie snorted, “An’ Aunt Connie’ll tell you t’ stuff it. You got the manners of a junkyard dog.” 

Gibbs gave the deputy a sharp look then eyeballed the table. “I don’t think we need a menu. Looks like everyone wants the special. I’ll have coffee, peas, Ranch and apple pie.”

She scribbled in her pad then turned to Dean. “Next.” She made her way around the table, taking each order with a slight smile. “Okay. I’ll have your drinks out in a sec.” She frowned at her notes.

Cos watched, then asked, “Something wrong?”

“Not really. Just ... I never can keep the orders straight. And everyone has ordered the same thing except for dressing and dessert.”

Cos chuckled kindly. “Always start at the same place at the table and number the orders. So ... oriented from the front door ... I’m in seat six. Head of table ...” he pointed, “number one, and clock-wise around. You’ll get so you don’t have to write it down, you’ll just remember.”

“Well, now, aren’t you the smart one. Thank you.” She scurried off with her pad to turn in the orders.

She returned in a few minutes with the drinks and water all balanced on a huge tray, which she was trying not to tip. She managed well enough that she got the tray on the folding base without making a mess. “Okay, now, I’ll just ...” she looked at the table with a slight frown. “Yeah, Here we go.” She put drinks on the table, then returned to the tray to pour water into the glasses from a pitcher and get them on the table. “There. I get it right?”

“You did.” Tony flashed one of his high powered smiles which made Annamarie flush with pleasure. “Good job. So ... what are you majoring in?”

“Culinary arts with a minor in catering.” 

Tony started to say something else, but the slap-bell rang, so Annamarie hurried to the pass to get their salads. She returned and managed to get most of the salads to the right people. It didn’t hurt that the dressing was in tiny cups instead of on the salad. The two she got wrong just exchanged cups and went on.

Gibbs called the table to order as they’d gotten a bit rowdy. “Okay, okay. You numbnuts settle down. We’ll finish lunch, then go back to the motel to shower and change. I’m sure Deputy Jones won’t mind.”

Ed shook his head. “I’d love to ditch all this stuff but it has to go back to the station.”

That was when the Pod realized that they were still in their armor, which explained the odd look Annamarie had given them. Dean shrugged, “I guess we’re used to it. It’s not the weight that’s a fuckin’ problem, it’s the damn heat.”

Ed agreed. “Probably ... and the fact that you’re more used to wearing it. I’ve only worn mine in training.” He poked at his salad. “I’m more used to domestic disputes, drunks, and smart-ass kids.”

Cos shrugged. “You’re doin’ damn good. Don’t forget, without you and your fellow deputies, the county would be full of battered spouses, idiot drunk drivers, and kids in real trouble.”

Ed nodded. “I know. I like my job, just ... sometimes it’d be nice to get a bit more recognition.”

Annamarie popped up just then. “I know. It’s just awful. But, what with things an’ stuff, most people don’t think. Well, free coffee on me. Just because.”

Ed started to say something but Tim nudged him. “Huh?”

“Let her. It’s as much for her as it is for you.”

“Oh, okay.” Ed thought about that. “But it’s a gratuity.”

Tony looked disgusted, “It’s a cup of fuckin’ coffee. Let ‘em do something nice for you. Public relations.” 

Ed nodded. “Somethin’ t’ think about.”

They finished their salads just as the slap-bell rang again. Annamarie brought a huge tray to the table and plopped it down on the support. “Well, here we are. I hope you like it.” She began to put out the plates, saying, “Since there’s so many of you and you all have to be big eaters, Charlie just did the sides family style. Hope that’s ok.”

She finished putting down the plates, smiled and went away.

The steaks were cube steak which had been dipped in flour then buttermilk, flour again then batter made with flour, egg, baking powder, baking soda, and buttermilk. They were deep-fried to a golden crispness. The peas and green beans were obviously frozen, but had been prepared with care; a bit of garlic powder, salt, and pepper made a real difference. The peas also had mint, while the green beans had bacon. The rolls were light and fluffy with a distinct yeasty flavor.

Dean and Remy held a quick head-to-head convo, which resulted in Remy heading for the kitchen to try to worm the recipe for the rolls and peas out of the chef. It turned out that the man was very flattered that “foreigners” wanted his recipes. He said, “You go on an’ enjoy your food. I’ll write them up and have them for you when you settle up.”

“Thanks, man, I really appreciate that. So good.” Remy smiled that gentle smile that made every woman who saw it melt. He ambled back to the table. “Got the recipes. They’ll be at the register for us when we pay.”

Tony grinned. “Great. I’ve been looking for a good soft-roll recipe. None of the ones I have are really what I wanted. This is.”

Annamarie returned to the table one last time, bearing pie and cake. “Here we go. Let me see if I got it right.” She started handing around pie and cake. Gibbs got apple, Dean and Remy both got peach, Tim had chocolate cake, while Tony and Cos got spice cake with burnt sugar icing.

One bite of the spice cake had Tony groaning in pleasure. “Oh, man. I wish Jimmy was here, he’d fuckin’ love this.”

Tim nodded. “Ducky would too. But Abby doesn’t like cinnamon that much. She’d love the icing though.”

Remy pointed with his fork. “True dat. But she love peach anyt’in’.” 

It only took a few more minutes for them to finish their desserts and head for the register. 

Tony turned on his most brilliant smile. “I’d love the recipe for that spice cake. Please?”

Annamarie snorted, “I’ll ask. He’ll probably give it. Since you don’t live around here.” She turned and yelled, “Charlie! Write up the spice cake!”

Charlie yelled back. “I figured as much. Seein’ as how they moaned like they was havin’ really good ... I’ll be done in a sec.”

Dean snickered as Charlie cut off what he was obviously going to say. 

Tim poked him. “Jerk.”

“ ’s funny. Bitch.” Dean poked him back.

They shoved back and forth, tripping each other and laughing until Gibbs called them to order. “Okay, you two settle the fuck down before you break something.” Gibbs turned back to pay their bill and collect the three recipes; these he tucked into his wallet. “Thank you. The food was good. The recipes will be much appreciated by everyone. Good-bye.”

They all piled back into the truck and left for the station. They’d decided that no one stank enough to need a shower yet. They’d just take off their armor and leave it in the truck.

When they reached the station, Deputy Jones was a bit surprised to find that all his passengers were sleeping. It was a good thing he knew better than to shake someone. He woke Tim by tossing pebbles at his feet until he woke up. 

“Huh? Wha? Oh, hey. I’m up.” Tim’s reaction woke the rest and they all scrambled out of the truck, dumping their armor as they got off.

The Desk Sergeant nodded to them and pointed into the back. “Back there. Got him booked in and did the dirty. His advocate is with him, beginning the extradition process. Be glad when you get that big girl out a’ here. Makes my teeth itch.”

Gibbs took the clipboard with the check-in info on it and started to read.

Tony sighed. “I ... well, I don’t think we’ll get to take him with us. If I know anything about advocacy, they’re gonna try t’ have him kept here until someone actually charges him with something.”

They started for the back, but a young, enthusiastic greenie stopped them. “Sorry ... sirs, you’ll have to be ... um ... searched for ... contraband.” 

Sheriff Daily started to say something but Tony just winked at him and grinned. “Okay, son, you wanna get a bin?” 

“Sure. But you could just put your stuff on the counter. It’ll be safe right there, an’ I’ll keep a personal eye on it.” He looked hopeful.

Gibbs just shrugged. “I’d advise bins, but on your head be it.” He pulled his Sig out of his thigh holster and put it on the counter, then he pulled his left pants leg up, grumbling about having to retuck it and put the Chiappa Rhino 20ds .357 beside the Sig. Then he ripped the velcro straps of his tac-vest open, pulled out a K-Bar and added it to the pistols. He also put a Stinger down. After standing for a moment he said, “That’s it.” He stepped back to retuck his pants leg

Remy stepped forward next and turned over his issue Sig, a handful of throwing knives, a K-Bar and a lump of C-4, then took a detonator and box out of another pocket. The deputy began to look uncomfortable.

Dean also turned over a Sig; but he added three wire snares, a garrote, an Omersub Cryot Dagger Knife in an aftermarket sheath and a match safe. He pointed to the knife. “Diver’s knife.” The deputy said, “Ah.”

Cos was under-armed with just his Sig and a K-Bar.

Tim was a bit surprising, with his mild demeanor and round face. No one expected to see a Sig, a Charter Arms Under Cover Light .38P+, a cam-loaded folding knife, and a flash drive. The deputy was beginning to look decidedly nervous, while Sheriff Daily and a couple of the older deputies were holding back laughter.

Tony was last, but had to wait as Deputy Kluger was putting everyone’s stuff into bins. When it was his turn, he grinned as he unloaded. First was a .45 Glock G41Gen4 Semi-Auto; its thick grip, which accommodated a 16-shot-capacity mag, gave Tony no trouble, but made the deputy gulp. Then he handed over his NCIS-issue Sig and an extra two mags for each pistol. This was followed by a K-Bar and a cam-loaded folder. He patted himself down and produced a wad of C4, several detonators, and a power box. A garrote and some snares were added to the pile. Another quick pat-down had him shaking his head, “Damn it, I know I’ve forgotten something. Or ... maybe not. Some of my stuff is in my ruck ... I think.”

Even Gibbs stared, “Jesus Christ, Badger, can you say overkill?”

Tony held his hand up with thumb and forefinger about an eighth of an inch apart. “Just a bit? Maybe.” 

Surprisingly, it was Tim who said, “No such thing. There’s only open fire, and reload.”

Deputy Kluger, who was now pale as skim milk, pointed with a shaking hand to a heavy steel door. “Through there.” He keyed the door from his station and it buzzed as it opened for the Pod.

“Thanks, kid. Keep an eye on our stuff. Oh ... and that wad of Play-Doh you’re kneading? That’s C4.” The deputy dropped it like it was hot. “But don’t worry. It won’t explode without a lot of help. You could even smack it with a hammer and it’d just flatten out.”

Deputy Maxwell snorted. “Do not give that greenie ideas. Boy could break an anvil.”

Deputy Kluger exclaimed, “It was an accident!”

This got laugher from the office and wide-eyed looks from most of the Pod. Gibbs just shook his head and pushed Tim through the door. “Go.”

Tim got through the door and out of the way, snickering all the while. “AJ, you’re evil.”

“I know. I’d hang my head in shame but ... seriously? Gave my last fuck in my first deployment.” Tony grinned and got out of Gibbs’ way.

They clattered down the hall and into a conference room with one chair bolted to the floor. It wasn’t long before they were joined by Joe Barns and his advocate, read lawyer, who was named Buck Evans. “Well, gentlemen, it seems we have a problem.”

Gibbs just rolled his eyes. “I’ll make a call. You do have a choice. Deal with me ... or deal with JAG. Your client has left a damn string of murdered lady Marines from Maine to Virginia. We’re still not sure of the number yet. One of the things we wanted to discuss with him,” he jerked a thumb at Barns.

“We’ll see about that after you show me some proof of your accusations.”

Tony took his phone out of his pocket and said, “I’ll send you the unclassified files. But some of it is actually need to know ... and you don’t.”

Mr. Evans looked displeased at that, but handed his phone to Tony. Tony fiddled for a moment, then handed it back. “Might want to transfer all that to a tablet; your screen is a bit small.” Mr Evans just took a 12.9” iPad Pro from his briefcase and transferred the files. He started looking through them and flinched as Tim pulled some of his computer magic and used his phone to pull up the pictures of some of the victims. “Oh, my lord.” Mr. Evans dropped the pad and rushed for the door. 

Tim smirked at Barns and tucked his phone into a pocket.

Joe Barns snarled, “What did you do, you little fucker?”

“Nothing you need to know about, asshole.”

Mr. Evans returned and sat down after moving his chair as far away from Barns as he could get and still stay on his side of the table. “Much as I am disgusted by ... that,” he pointed to his iPad, “I still have a job to do.”

Gibbs just shrugged. “Just make sure all the damn t’s are crossed and i’s dotted and we’ll get along fine. We don’t necessarily want to be cooped up with ... him all the way back to DC. My take on this is simple. We leave him in your custody, and you fuckin’ transport him when it’s time.” Gibbs knew this was going to blow up in Evans’ face; the county was poor and really didn’t have the resources in money or officers to do this. It was around three hundred and twenty-some-odd miles, would take five plus hours, one way, not counting stops; and tie up a vehicle and two officers. Not to mention the gas and overtime.

Gibbs glanced at Tony then Tim. “We ready?”

Tim just stood up, followed by Tony who said, “Oscar Mike.”

Gibbs looked at Barns then smiled that smile that made sharks sweat. “By the way, count your damn lucky stars that you didn’t fuck with us. SEALs take no prisoners ... neither do Marine Scout Snipers. Jackwad.”

They returned to the outside conference room to wait, collecting their weapons on the way. Deputy Kluger offered to go into town and get pastries but Gibbs turned him down, saying, “Thanks, but we’re out of here in an hour. We’ll go back to the motel, clean up, gas the hummer, and be on our way by ... 1600 ... on the dot. Have ‘im ready or ... fuck this shit.”

Sheriff Daily nodded. “Gotcha. I’ll see what I can do about building a fire under someone.”

Another deputy was assigned to drive them back to their motel as Deputy Jones had gone off duty while they were busy with Barns. While they were on the road, Tim tried to call Abby. “Damn it. Fuck this shit. I’ve got one damn bar. Abby’s gonna have fits. I’ll try again at the motel.”

Cos shook his head. “No go. Remember? Gibbs tried to call Vance and had to use the damn landline.”

“Right. I hate fuckin’ dead zones. I’ll be glad to get back to civilization and no damn dead zones. Shit.” Tim shoved his phone back into its pocket, grumbling.

Dean scowled. “Someone is gonna have t’ call Vance an’ tell ‘im what’s goin’ on, get new orders. Seriously, I’m not lookin’ forward t’ takin’ that fuckin’ jackwad back t’ DC with us. Can you imagine five damn hours in a vehicle with that whinin’ come-stain? 

Remy swore in French then said, “Not doin’ it. No damn way. Let the Federal Marshals take care of it.”

Gibbs thought about that for a few minutes while the rest of the Pod indulged in the ancient military pastime of bitching. “Shut up. We’re gonna make a fuckin’ run for it. Fuck this shit. Vance can make the damn arrangements. We did our due, turn the rest over to JAG and fuck it, let them deal. We can shower and be out of town in an hour, easy. Make sure you get all your damn gear. Wouldn’t do to leave a fuckin’ expensive issue behind.”

When they arrived at the motel, Gibbs thanked their driver and told him to tell the sheriff that they were going to be out of town in less than an hour. He, the sheriff, was now responsible for all arrangements to get Barns wherever JAG said he should be. He, Gibbs, would call Vance and start arrangements to get them in touch with JAG and the Federal Marshals, who were now in charge of this whole shootin’ match and Charlie Foxtrot. The deputy just grinned, nodded, and drove away.

“Well, he was easy.”

Gibbs frowned for a moment, “I’m not sure he even understood what I was sayin’.” He shrugged, “Fuck it. Shower.”

Since they had three rooms they split up to their quarters to shower and change. While Tim showered, Gibbs called Vance. “Leon. We got him. He’s a real sad sack and a loser. So ... we’re leaving him in custody here. Up to you to get ‘em where he needs t’ go.”

“All right. Reports on my desk, ASAP. I’ll call JAG and get things started.”

“You do that, Leon. We’ll be back in DC in ... about seven hours. We’re gonna loaf it an’ take our time. Stop for a meal, that sort of thing.”

“I’ll see you then, Jethro. Tomorrow by 1000. Reports due by 1200.”

“Okay.” Gibbs hung up the phone without more comment.

Leon eyed the phone with some disfavor. “Would it fuckin’ kill ya t’ say good-bye? Jerk.”

.

It wasn’t long before they were all showered and dressed again. It seemed that the old saw that people who lived together got more and more alike as time went on was true. Everyone had dressed in some version of jeans, t-shirt, flannel, boots, and holdouts. It was a bit warm for flannel shirts, but everyone wore one, unbuttoned, as the reason was to cover their shoulder holsters. Their pants were untucked to allow easy access to whatever holdout they considered useful.

Gibbs held out the can, rattling the chips, “Come on, let’s get this show on the road. Pick your seat and suck it up if you don’t like it. No damn do-overs. I want out of this CATFU dead zone ASAP.”

So everyone took a chip and settled in the seat they’d drawn; everyone had to admit that Jimmy’s idea had paid off in spades. No one complained if they didn’t like the seat they’d drawn; a bit of cursing fate, some generalized bitching, but no real complaining.

They were on the road exactly one hour after arriving at the motel. Tony and Tim both kept checking their phones for bars and the swearing was epic as they continuously fluctuated from one to three bars but couldn’t keep three bars long enough to make a call.

Tim finally advised, “We should just give it up until we’re out of the mountains. We’re okay until we drop into a valley. I’m goin’ t’ sleep.” And with that, he settled back to take a nap.

They drove for three hours, then stopped at a truck stop. The hummer needed gas, and they needed the head as well as food and drink. 

They trooped into the quick-mart to get snacks and drinks, leaving the Hummer to an attendant; this was one of the few remaining places which provided them. 

They wandered the aisles for a few minutes; then the attendant came in, hunting for Tony. “Excuse me, sir. I need you to move your vehicle to the pumps. You’ve parked too far from the pump, and I’m not allowed to move it.”

Tony followed the kid out to move the huge thing to the pump. He pocketed his key and returned to his search for the perfect snack. He was working on a decision between beef jerky and a snack stick when the attendant came back in, this time with a very frightened look.

“Sir! I stopped the fill. There’s got to be a leak somewhere in the system. I’ve put nearly forty gallons in and it was still going.”

Tony dropped both the jerky and the stick into his basket before saying, “It’s okay. I put in two fifty-gallon aftermarket tanks Just check to make sure the feed switched over.”

The kid gulped and whispered, “A hundred gallons of diesel? Holy shit.”

Dean made the kid jump when he said, “Yeah. Ran out of juice in the field once too often.”

“Um ... Do I dare ask?” The kid looked even more nervous.

“Might not be that good an idea ... depends on how strong your stomach is.” Tony eyed a bag of pretzels but decided against it.

“Oh. No ... I’m not askin’. When a guy looks like you and says somethin’ like that? I’m leavin’ it alone. I’ll finish fueling.” The kid scurried away, red-faced.

Dean shook his head. “You shouldn’t scare the kiddies.”

Tony just snorted and wandered on. He was tired; he’d been up at 0500 and going since; not that the others hadn’t, but he was driving and not looking forward to another three hours on the highway with, a possible hour in crappy DC traffic on top.

Gibbs ambled over with a package of chips and a candy bar; he dropped them in Tony’s basket. “Keys.” Tony didn’t protest; he just fished the keys out of his pocket and dropped them in Gibbs’ outstretched hand. He tucked the keys into his pocket, said, “Coffee,” and walked off.

Tony shook his head. “Functional mute.”

“He is that. But only when he’s flamin’ pissed.”

Remy watched Gibbs for a moment, “Wonder what the fuck’s got ‘im pissed.”

Cos, who was trying to call Belt, said, “Probably the lack of a fuckin’ signal. I got one damn bar. Hate this area.” He shoved his phone into his pocket and walked off, grumbling about dead zones and how he wasn’t ever going anywhere there was no service again. Ever.

Tony nodded. “What he said.” 

They paid for their drinks and snacks, then everyone except Tony left. Tony stayed to pay for the fuel. The checker punched up his pump then blinked. “Eighty-six gallons? Sir?”

“Sounds about right.” Tony handed the lady his credit card. “Ring it up.”

She scanned the snacks from his basket then said, “Two hundred fourteen dollars and seventy-one cents.”

Tony swiped his card and waited while it validated. The machine beeped, the checker punched a button, then waited while his receipt printed. “Here you go, sir. Have a nice day.”

“Thanks. You too. Bye.” Tony put the receipt in his wallet, picked up his bag and ambled out the door. 

It wasn’t long before they were back on the road, with Gibbs behind the wheel and Tony riding shotgun, sound asleep with his feet on the dash. Gibbs had finally slowed his driving style. He’d found that one of the reasons everyone objected to his style so much was, he drove like there was an IED every foot, it brought on flashbacks and messed with all the SEALs. Tim had admitted that he always felt like they were an inch from crashing, and he was always a nervous wreck when they got where they were going.

Gibbs finished the drive in good, but not record, time and pulled into his drive near 1600. He got out, then slammed the door, effectively waking everyone up. Dean and Cos scrambled to get out, grab their stuff, and head for the door. Remy took his time, saying good night to Tony and Tim. 

Tony grumbled a bit, trying to wake up, then took the wheel. Tim waved to the GHQ group who stood on the porch to watch them leave.

The half hour drive to Mallard Manor was accomplished in near silence as Tim texted Abby to let her know they were back, and Jimmy and Ducky to let them know, as well as asking if they needed anything from the stores. Jimmy texted back that they didn’t, and Abby just sent, “K,” to let them know she got the text.

Ducky and Jimmy greeted them at the door, grabbing bags and chatting cheerfully. Jimmy grumped, “I don’t know where you were exactly but don’t go there again. We were worried when no one answered our calls and texts until Director Vance told us you were in a dead zone. Supper as soon as you’re cleaned up.”

Tim sighed. “Great. And my phone is blown up with all the texts and missed calls. I’ll have to clear it tomorrow.”

Tony moaned, “Oh man. I just hope I didn’t miss something from Belt. I do not want a GOMAR.”

Ducky reassured him, saying, “My dear boy. No one can hold you responsible for being in a dead zone while doing your duty.”

“Yeah? I hope.”

It turned out that their CO was only pissed that they’d been in a dead zone and therefore unable to call for assistance if they needed it. Tony remarked rather mildly, “Well, if four SEALs and a damn Marine Scout Sniper need fuckin assistance t’ pick up some waste of space, I’m worried.”

Belt just snorted and said, “True. Too true.”

Tony hung up. “Well, thank Thor.” He eyed his phone. “Wonder if there’s some way to deal with dead zones?”

Tim shook his head. “If you can figure that out, you’ll be rich.”

They settled at the table to eat. Tim and Tony were happy to find that Jimmy had made his beef and barley stew, and Ducky had made rolls. They ate quietly, then headed for bed. Tony even said, “I bet I get a good five hours.”

Ducky, who’d run ETKM on Tony to make sure that he wasn’t suffering from some sort of tumor or something, nodded, “I hope so. I know you don’t seem to be sleep-deprived, but I still find it worrisome.”

“Don’t worry, Ducky; if I feel off, I’ll let you know.”

They separated to their own rooms and went to bed. Tony muttered, “Good night, guys.” and was out like the proverbial light.

.  
Forgot this part, sorry. Betaed by Jake and Jordre

Part 2

Director Vance eyed his phone. It had been three days since Joe Barns had been caught, and he was still suspicious of his phone. He knew that he shouldn’t be, but there were dead zones everywhere and he was nervous. He was supposed to be meeting a CI here but the man was late, and he couldn’t be reached by phone. He’d either turned it off, not that unusual with the paranoid man, or something was wrong. He wondered why meetings like this were always in a damn parking garage or isolated warehouse.

A voice from the shadows made him and his security team jump. “Well, I called and called. I’m sorry I’m late.” The CI stepped out of the shadows and trotted over. He was an older man, a junior executive in the company they were investigating for defrauding the Marine Corp. He was disheveled, tie askew and jacket rumpled. He carried a briefcase that was obviously heavy. “I lucked out. Pritchart handed me a whole pile of sensitive files with orders to shred the lot. Here. And I’m taking you up on the offer of witness protection. This has busted me completely.”

Vance took the case, nodded to his secondary team, and got into his car with a short, “Thanks. Go with him.” 

The secondary team drove out first, taking their witness to his new residence. 

Vance returned to his phone on the drive back to NCIS, realizing that he’d been in a dead zone caused by the materials in the parking garage. The concrete-and-steel-girder construction had blocked the cell signal. He had missed calls from half a dozen important people; Gibbs and SecNav would both give him an earful. The rest he wasn’t too worried about, they’d either get over it or they wouldn’t. 

He’d only been in his office for ten minutes before Gibbs and DiNozzo charged in, breathing fire. He held up a hand and said wearily, “I know. I shouldn’t have met him myself, but it is that important. And I didn’t check my phone ... didn’t even realize I was in a dead zone until my CI said something. Sorry.”

Gibbs grimaced, all the wind taken out of his sails in one go. “Well, damn. Just let me know you’re going into a situation beforehand next time.”

“I’ve got security.”

Gibbs looked at Tony, who just snorted. “Yeah, right.” They left, walking in step.

Leon Vance eyed their retreating backs, then sighed; when they were right, they were right. Pissed him something awful, but there you were. He vowed to check for dead zones in the future; he didn’t need his hair burnt off. He wasn’t sure whose glare was hotter, Gibbs’ or DiNozzo’s, although Remy’s was pretty hot, too. 

Then there was Abby. She just gave him that “look,” the one that reminded him of Jackie in a snit.

.

Jimmy eyed his phone with disgust. They were on their way to a crime scene, except that his phone had dropped the signal, and he was now looking at a blank display instead of the map he’d been sent. “Damn it.”

“James, language. Do you remember any of that map?”

“No. Just keep going in a straight line; dead zones aren’t very big around here. Some of them only a few yards in any direction.” he looked at his phone again just as the map popped back into existence. “Ha! Here we go.”

A few minutes later they were pulling up to the site. Gibbs met them at the bus with a scowl. “Thanks for joining us.”

Ducky scowled right back. “You’re very welcome, Jet. In future, provide us with an actual address ... not some electronic thing sure to create a disaster if the signal fails. Now, I believe you have a PO for me to examine? Let’s not keep him waiting any longer.” And with that he walked off, back stiff with offense. 

Gibbs sighed. “Sorry, Ducky. Just ... there’s a reason for Rule 3, you know.”

Ducky nodded. “I know. So ... we’re both sorry arses. I never realized there are so many dead zones.”

Tim overheard that, so he said, “I know. But they’re mostly so small that you pass right through them without noticing. Newer phones don’t even drop ... you might get a blip or a bit of static but that’s all. So...” he went on to give what information he had on their corpse. 

Ducky called Jimmy to task, and they did their initial evaluation. “He’s dead via gunshot, Jethro. That’s all I’m prepared to say just now. When I get him back to the morgue and finish my autopsy, I’ll tell you what he had for supper. Until then, ask Tony to help Jimmy get him into the bus.”

That was one thing that they’d all finally insisted on. Ducky was not to wrestle bodies anymore; he’d strained his back several months ago and scared them all. He’d grudgingly admitted that it was getting more and more difficult. Vance had been informed, and agreed, if no one else was available, a couple of Marines from the security detail would be lent to him.

They finished their initial questioning and returned to NCIS, agreeing that any more questions would be asked here at the Yard instead of at the site. No one wanted to deal with the constant dropouts that put them out of contact. 

The in-and-out of witnesses kept them busy for two days. It turned out that the PO was a hunting accident. The man who’d shot him was sure that he’d been shooting at a deer and missed. The PO’s brown suede jacket had fooled him. Gibbs had given him a thundering lecture about making sure of his target before, or not shooting at all. The man had then been turned over to civilian authorities for further processing. Tony was pretty sure he was in for at least felonious discharge of a firearm in a state park and assault with a deadly weapon and/or accidental homicide.

They celebrated by having a dinner at Mallard Manor.

Tony went to the grocery store and returned with a dozen bags of groceries, including a five-pound bag of semolina flour. He dumped all the tomatoes into a pot and put it under the faucet to fill. As the pot filled with water, he sorted the rest of his purchases, putting things to be chopped at one cutting board, things to be shredded at another. It didn’t surprise anyone that he’d bought a huge block of parmesan cheese and expected someone to shred it all. And he’d bought fresh mozzarella as well. 

Gibbs wandered in. “You gonna scald those ‘maters and skin ‘em?”

“No. I’m just gonna cook ‘em down good an’ run the immersion blender through.” Tony turned to the pot to start washing the tomatoes. “Gotta wash ‘em good first and pick off the stems. Then I’ll just chop ‘em, put ‘em back in the pot wet. That’ll be enough water to keep ‘em from stickin’ until they start juicin’ out.”

“Oh. Okay. What do I do?” Gibbs rolled his sleeves up in preparation.

“I’ll put you on mozzarella. Just slice it. But it’s fresh, so it’ll stick to the knife like crazy.”

Gibbs got out his favorite knife. “Nope. Just spray the knife with some cooking spray.”

Tony nodded his understanding as he cornered Cos. “Onions. There. Chop.”

Cos whined, “Aw, man. I hate onions; they make my eyes water, my nose run, and my hands always stink.”

Tony just shrugged, “You’ve managed to skip for three turns. Chop.”

So they chopped, diced, and washed. Soon the pot was on the stove, cooking down the tomatoes. Tony added fresh herbs, garlic, and onion, then left it to simmer. He also put the roast veg on half-sheet pans, sprinkled them with olive oil, salt, and pepper.

Tony nodded as he inspected everyone’s tasks, then turned to making the pasta; it had to rest before it was cut and cooked. He dumped the bag of flour and some salt onto the counter, cracked eggs, added water and oil to that and whisked it. He poured the egg, water, and oil into the well and began to mix.

Ducky eyed the mass on the side counter then asked, “How do you remember the recipe?”

Tony shrugged. “It’s one cup of semolina flour, one egg, one drippy tablespoon of olive oil, one tablespoon of water and a dash of salt. Combine flour and salt, make a well in the middle, mix oil, egg and water, dump in well. Knead until it comes together and there’s no dry spots; knead until smooth, then rest at least fifteen minutes. If it doesn’t come together add more water a few drops at a time. Easy. That’ll serve about four big appetites or make eight starters. I just use about a pound of flour for us. I’m going to dry some of this for later.”

Ducky shook his head with a laugh. “How many recipes do you know by heart?”

“No idea. Just know a lot and can improvise as needed. Here.” Tony handed Ducky a blank book. “Write stuff down.” Ducky just took the book and a pen and settled at the kitchen table to write as instructed.

Remy wandered in from the armory in the basement to ask, “What are we having?”

“Spaghetti and meat balls al la DiNozzo. Roast veg, salad, and garlic toast. Which you, by the way, are making. Get started.” Remy whined a bit, but got to work. “And while the toast is toasting, you can do the parmesan. You’ll need some for the toast anyway.”

Gibbs announced that he was done with the mozzarella. Tony told him to stir the sauce so it wouldn’t scorch. He was still kneading the pasta dough.

Dean showed up from the back yard where he’d been weeding and was told to go take a shower before he stank up the kitchen. He just grumbled, “Well, someone has to weed,” and ambled up the stairs to do as he was told.

Tony grumbled too. “Damn it. Salad. Jet, can you tear lettuce and keep an eye on the sauce?”

“Sure. One big bowl?”

“Yeah. And I’ll make dressing in a sec.” Tony decided the dough had been kneaded enough, so he floured a space on the counter, plopped the dough on it, and covered it with a big plastic bowl. The bowl was floppy enough that it wasn’t good for mixing, so it was designated a cover. Gibbs had made a handle out of a piece of turned wood and a couple of screws.

Ducky interrupted with a question. “Tony, recipe for your meatballs, please.”

“Oh, okay ... Um ... three pounds of ground chuck, three pounds of ground turkey thighs, three pounds ground fresh pork loin. And I’ve no idea how much garlic, basil, oregano, rosemary, salt or pepper. I just dump until it looks right. Oh ... bread crumbs.” He thought for a moment. “ Back to the herbs ... fifteen cloves of garlic finely minced, and around half a jar of basil, oregano, and rosemary ... that’s if you buy the tall jar, if you get the small one ... the whole thing. Around a quarter cup of salt and pepper and some red pepper flakes if you like them. I just buy bread crumbs in an oatmeal sort of box and use the whole thing and maybe part of another, and nine or ten eggs.”

Ducky blinked. “That’s a lot of stuff.”

“We eat a lot of stuff.” Tony grinned. He picked up a portion scoop, read ice-cream scoop, and started portioning the meat for the meatballs. 

“You do. And not a one of you has a tapeworm. I checked.” Ducky chuckled then went back to his writing.

Everyone laughed as they remembered Ducky insisting on blood, urine, sputum, and stool samples from all of them, stating that he had reservations about their health due to exposure to “foreign climes.” It had been a bit embarrassing, but Jet had insisted.

Tony put down the scoop and wet his hands to start making the portions into proper meatballs. He made his meatballs a bit bigger than commercial ones, at about a quarter cup of mix per ball, so they had to be rounded out properly by hand or they wouldn’t bake properly.

Jimmy finished with his task and took over portioning so they could get the meat in the oven more quickly. It didn’t take long to get four pans of meatballs in the oven. Since it would take the veg just as long to roast, they also went into an oven.

Tony checked the dough and announced, “Okay, time to roll and cut this.” He started by dividing the dough into four pieces, then rolled one out into an eighth-inch-thick sheet. He sprinkled it with flour, then rolled it up. He passed it off to Jet to slice into eighth-inch noodles. The noodles were then spread on the counter to dry until cooked.

Gibbs eyed the noodles, then asked, “Why dry them if you’re going to boil ‘em anyway?”

“If you don’t let ‘em dry, they’ll fall apart. Not nice.” 

Ducky presented Tony with a glass of rough red, then went back to his writing.

They all nearly jumped out of their skins as Ducky’s phone went off. 

“Shit!” Dean clutched his chest dramatically. “’Scotland the Brave’? Ducky!”

“Hush.” Ducky put his phone to his ear and said, “Mallard.” He listened, then said, “Abigail, please, I’m old but I’m not deaf ... yet. What do you want?”

No one could hear what Abby was saying, but Ducky finally said, “Well, my dear, if you insist on going to that club, you’ll have to get used to being in a dead zone. That whole area is one giant electronic sink. Now ... calm down. Go home and take a hot bath. Call the tow company and have them take your car to their yard, then make arrangements for your mechanic to pick it up.” He listened again then said flatly, “No, we won’t. You’re a grown woman,” and with that he hung up. “I am not in the mood for one of Abby’s tantrums. She’s a grown woman, but sometimes she ... well, not spoiling my supper with her moods.”

Remy shrugged, “She excitable. Elle est une femme. Perhaps it’s that time of month?”

Everyone either groaned or went “Ewww!” but no one protested. Abby did have a habit of just calling out of the blue, expecting everyone to drop what they were doing and come rescue her. They all loved the eccentric Goth, but they didn’t cater to her. Gibbs even stopped bringing her Caf-Pow on demand. Vance had put his foot down; as they were causing her physical problems, she was limited, by Directorial decree and physician’s advice, to two a day.

Ducky frowned. “I believe that this particular upset was caused by her inability to get anyone on the phone. I didn’t realize that there are still so many dead zones.”

Tim shrugged. “Probably always will be a few. They’re caused by all sorts of things ... that you’re not interested in. But one of the main offenders is construction. Buildings made of concrete and steel block signals from almost any source ... and they cause shadows. If they’re between you and the tower, there’s a sort of shadow where there’s no signal. High-power electric lines are another offender.” He reached out to get another huge pot. “I’d better start the water, or it won’t boil in time.”

They went back to their cooking, leaving Abby to call a tow. If she’d been in real distress, they’d have gone at a run. This was not that sort of situation.

Ducky frowned for a moment, then announced, “AJ! Salad dressing.”

“Shit! I completely forgot.” He got out bottles and started. “Okay, Italian dressing. Easy. Figure on a quarter cup for each person, we like big salads. So, two cups olive oil, cup water, half a cup of either balsamic or apple cider vinegar ... do not use white, it’s too sour. Salt, pepper, Italian seasoning, garlic. To taste. I use about a tablespoon of seasoning and garlic, tea of salt and pepper. Just dump it all in a bowl and whisk the hell out of it; put it in a mason jar so you can shake it before pouring. It separates like mad.”

The oven dinged, so Tony went to check the meatballs and veg. The veg was nearly done so he stirred it; a meatball cut in half proved that they were still a bit pink. “‘Nother ten and we’re good to go. How’s the sauce?”

Gibbs eyed the bubbling pot, then said, “It’s done. Just needs blending. It looks soupy, but a good blend will take care of that. Might want a bit more garlic and seasoning, though.”

Tony checked and agreed. He got out the blender and blended the whole mess right in the pot. A quick taste and he agreed that it needed more garlic and seasoning, and some salt. He added the ingredients then said, “Keep an eye on that. It’ll stick like a fucker now.”

Ten minutes later everything was on the table. Tony served portions on huge plates, rather than family style. He claimed that serving spaghetti from a platter was an invitation to mess and everyone agreed with him. He always put all the pasta into the sauce then fished out portions, added meatballs and more sauce then topped it with parm. The veg was served on the side; they cheated by putting it on their bread plates.

They were just finishing up their meal when Ducky got a text from Abby, apologizing for being a brat. She was a good person at heart, but could be very self-centered at times. Usually when she’d been hanging around at a club where she was idolized for her brilliant mind and genius hacking skills.

They cleaned the kitchen without their usual horseplay and wandered off to read, watch TV, or play a game until they were tired and relaxed enough to sleep. 

.

Gibbs had to laugh at the email he’d gotten from a Federal Martial he knew. It had started out, “Gibbs, I hate you, you jerk,” and gone on to piss and moan about Joe Barns. It seemed that his friend had gotten the unenviable job of transporting Barns to Quantico for lockup. His partner added a P.S. “You’re buying the beer.”

Tony glanced up from finishing some reports. “What’s funny?”

Gibbs waited while Dean, Cos, and Remy gathered around. Tim looked up, but stayed at his desk, he could hear Gibbs just fine. 

So Gibbs told his story, making the whole Pod laugh. Tim snickered, then said, “Too bad Jimmy isn’t here. He’d laugh ’til he puked.”

Remy chuckled, “I’ll just run down an’ tell ‘im. Ducky too.” He trotted off, still chuckling to himself.

.

Thirty minutes later no one was laughing; a bomb had been set off at a recruiting drive at a shopping center in Reston. Gibbs stood up, barked, “Grab your gear!” and trotted off. Remy, Dean, Cos, Tony, and Tim were hot on his heels. 

It took an hour to get there, mostly because they had to get through three civilian road blocks. Gibbs grumbled a bit, but didn’t lose his famous temper, because anyone with sense could see that the area had to be cleared. The local LEO’s also got a call that there were more bombs. 

When they finally arrived, followed by a caravan of bomb techs, CSI’s, and general dogs’ bodies, they were greeted with a line of ambulances, fire trucks, and pandas. 

Gibbs got out to talk with the local Commander, telling Cos, “Park it somewhere.”

Cos took the driver’s seat, while everyone else got out of the SUV, gathered gear, and followed Gibbs. He parked where a cop pointed and trotted to catch up.

Gibbs consulted with the Site Commander, who just pointed. “Bomb. Dead people are mostly military of one sort or another. The Army and Air Force wanted to send people, but I told ‘em that NCIS was Fed and local. I’m not havin’ my crime scene clogged with redundant personnel. You’ll share intel ... or I’ll make a stink. Not gettin’ my ass chewed out because you hold your cards too close to your vest.”

Gibbs glowered but agreed. “Liaise with DiNozzo. AJ ... deal.” He stomped off to check things out, consult with the bomb squad, and make sure the CSI knew what he wanted collected. 

It took them nearly two days to collect all the bits of bomb, messenger bag, and other crap, and Abby was in a snit because some of it had been contaminated by a cop who’d walked through the scene with blueberry yoghurt on his shoes.

Abby waved her hands around, trying to express her disgust. “Yoghurt? Seriously? Really?” She tugged on one pigtail. “Who the hell ... what was he thinking? They don’t give out shoe covers because they’re stylish.”

Gibbs caught her flailing hands with a laugh. “Abs ... easy there. His CO ripped him a new one. I think he’s on filing detail until further notice. And it really wasn’t that bad ... was it?”

“No, not really. But you know how much I hate dealing with contaminated evidence. We’ve got plenty but ... if that had been the only bits we had? Well, we’d be in TARFUN territory. So ... I’ve only got a few bits worth the effort, but some of them belong to a Nokia phone. The thing’s around ... oh ... eight to ten years old. A lot of that sort of phone got turned in for a rebate, but they wound up in the hands of terrorist groups ... and the people who sent them in never got squat. So ... anyway ... it was the detonator. The bomb itself was just a wad of Symtex, the taggants say it’s stolen from someplace in Romania. And that’s what I’ve got. Except that ... it’s old ... ish.”

Gibbs nodded. “Thanks, Abs. You find anything else, let me know.”

“You know it. Now shoo.” She cocked her head then went to stare at one of her babies.

Gibbs just chuckled and left.

.

The threat of more bombs was a reality; five more went off during the next week. It was very strange that the targets were another recruiting drive, a recruiting center, a Catholic church, a synagogue, and a mosque. They worked each crime scene as an individual crime so as not to taint or compromise their evidence, but Abby said that the bombs were all made by the same people. She also said that they were amateurs and were using old methods, easily found on the darknet, or even the regular one. 

Gibbs finally lost his temper when one last lead dead-ended. “Son of a fucking bitch! Damnit!” He kicked a trash can into the divider. “I’m done. The FBI, Homeland, and NSA are breathing down our necks. The only reason we haven’t already lost this case is that Abby’s the best forensicist for it.”

Tony agreed. “She’s written four papers on taggants and composition. She even gets stuff from the CIA from time to time. And you know how much they love letting go of anything.” Tony fiddled with some papers, then said, “And I do not want her taking off without one of us with her.”

Gibbs agreed, “Yeah, like that’s happenin’ ... ever.”

They all jumped, and Gibbs and Remy actually drew down when a voice from near the elevators said, “Who’s not what?”

Gibbs holstered his sidearm then snarled, “Damnit, Tobias, you’re gonna get shot yet.”

Tobias Fornell said, “I noticed;” the sour expression on his face made the whole group snicker. “Anyway ... what?”

Tony replied, “Abby. She’s not takin’ off with some jackwad from another alphabet without one or three of us with her.”

Fornell nodded, “I heard about the last time. Some heads rolled over that. I just dropped by to tell you that we’re forming a task force; this is getting out of hand. No one knows what their objective is. I mean, who the hell bombs three churches, a recruiting center, two recruiting drives, and nothing else? Yeah, there was another bomb, late last night, at that recruiting center down in Alexandria. This is just plain weird. And that last one lost us a team. They were disarming it when it went off. Lost the bomb tech and two of his team. They had the bomb in the tank, but didn’t have the lid on it yet. The blast went straight up.” He rubbed his face, looking tired and stressed. “So. Who’s on the task force?”

Gibbs nodded. “Me. Abby. Someone Vance will decide on.” He was usually really bad about sharing with other agencies, but this was not the time to get into a pissing match over jurisdiction.

Fornell started to say something, then changed his mind. He looked around for a moment, then asked, “Anyone have a presentation prepared?”

Everyone looked at McGee. “Not yet. I’m waiting on a few more bits of data. I’ll have something ASAP.”

Vance’s voice from the mezzanine called, “You’re on the task force. I’ll be sending you, Gibbs, and Abby. Get your stuff together, make your presentation, then be prepared to go with Senior Agent Fornell.” He nodded in their general direction. “I’ll be in MTAC if you need me.” He walked off, looking stressed and tired.

Fornell sighed, rubbed his face, and said, “Coffee. Damnit, I need coffee. And not that crap from the lounge.”

Gibbs nodded. “Me too. Come on.” He walked off, Fornell right behind him. “We’ll be back with the usual in twenty or so.”

No one said much beyond, “Yeah, great,” or “Okay;” they were all too busy watching as McGee prepared his presentation right on the big-screen monitor in the bullpen. They all offered suggestions, which McGee either took or explained why he didn’t. They were still working on the presentation when Gibbs and Fornell came back.

Fornell looked a bit more rested and less stressed, while Gibbs had “gone all Gunny” on them. He was laser-focused.

They handed around the coffee, while Gibbs reviewed what Tim had. “Good. Makes sense ... of what we have. Any connections?”

Heads shook all over the bullpen. “Not a one.” Dean’s disgusted face made everyone’s feelings clear.

Vance returned. “Okay. Head for this address ... Quantico is going to host the team. I’ll stay here. Abby will have a lab at that location.” He held up a hand. “I know. She’ll just have to suck it up and deal. She’s also going to have at least four techs. One FBI, one CIA, one Homeland, and one from here. Gibbs, I expect you to keep her on an even keel.”

“Got it. Come on, Digimon, we’ll pick Abs up and be on our way.” Gibbs nodded to the rest of the group then headed for the stairs with Tim at his side.

Dean went back to his desk, coffee in hand. “Okay, what do we actually have in the way of solid evidence? Not conjecture, what-if’s, or any of that projection shit.”

They went over everything they had for the hundred-and-first time and got exactly squat. As Cos said, “We don’t even got shit, all we got is a damn fart. Son a’ bitch.”

Since they were all running on fumes, they decided to go home, shower, eat, and get some sleep. 

Tony usually cooked in a situation like this, but everyone was worn down by a week of long days and stress. Cos just called an order in to the Greek place they liked and said he’d pick it up on the way to Mallard Manor. Ducky just said to get plenty of salad. Even he and Jimmy were worn to a thread. The DCPD morgue had sent all the military bodies to them, plus some of the civilians; they were backed up and completely unable to cope. 

So they were all worn down, grumpy, and, due to a late night and early morning, grubby.

Tony pointed. “Dean, Cos, Remy; three S’s. Go.” Dean, Cos, and Remy headed for the bathrooms to shower and shave; ten minutes later they were back downstairs. Ducky had gone to his private bathroom, telling Jimmy he could have it as soon as he was done. Tony waited for one of his men to finish, and, when Dean was done, he cleaned up. Within thirty minutes they were all showered and shaven and back down in the kitchen in sleep pants and t-shirts or sweats. Ducky had even dressed in a jogging suit.

The food hadn’t been ready when Jimmy stopped by, so he’d arranged for delivery; they were just settled when the doorbell rang. The delivery man said that, as the food hadn’t been ready in time, delivery was free. Jimmy tipped the man and brought the food inside, with a little help from Dean. 

“Okay, who wants what?” Gibbs settled at the head of the table, Ducky at the foot. They didn’t think there would be any need to keep the Pod from what Tim called “SEAL crazy;” they were all too tired, but you never knew.

It turned out that they didn’t have to; everyone was very well behaved, read exhausted, so the meal passed in conversation and a bit of back-handed teasing. 

The food was great; salad, gyros, spanakopita, olives, garlicky bread sticks, dolmades, baklava, and fried doughnuts. There were also all the trimmings like tomatoes, onions, and tzatziki sauce for the gyros, crumbled feta to go on the meatballs, and a honey, lemon, and orange-water syrup for the doughnuts. 

Gibbs started the platter of pita breads around after taking two. The platter of gyros meat came next, then the spanakopita. The dolmades followed along with the bread sticks. All the trimmings were in bowls in the middle of the table and were passed as requested. It was no surprise to anyone that all the platters returned to Gibbs empty. He made a long arm and stacked them on a side table. 

Dean swallowed a huge bite of gyros then said, “Okay. I know we’re not supposed to talk business at table but ... anyone?”

Ducky shrugged, “I, as you boys say, got nothin’. Common explosive, common damage patterns, common bloody everything. Whoever this is ... nothing.”

Tony agreed, “Yeah. Fuckin’ nothin’. They don’t have a damn signature of any kind. It’s like they’re workin’ their way through the Modern Terrorists Handbook or somethin’. Can’t get a damn handle on ‘em. Fornell is havin’ kittens.” He morosely turned his attention back to his dolmades. 

Jimmy nibbled at a bit of lettuce. “Well, that ... in and of itself, is a clue. But we can’t make sense of it because we don’t have a basis of reference. And that’s a problem.”

Remy offered, “They’re not military, paramilitary, or survivalists.”

Ducky questioned that. “Why not survivalists?”

Cos answered that. “Because survivalists aren’t interested in creating chaos, just surviving it.”

“Okay. So ... what military organization would want chaos?” 

Tony frowned at the ceiling, twiddling his fingers on his chin. “Well, let me see ...Daesh? Yeah. Russia? Possibly. China? Maybe. Korea? Meh.” He went back to his food with a dissatisfied expression on his face. 

Jimmy frowned. “Daesh? Who the fuck is that?”

“ISIS. They hate that name and have threatened to cut the tongue out of anyone who uses it.”   
Dean snorted. “Let ‘em try.”

“Yeah. But back to our mad bomber. We really need to catch this fuck soon.”

Gibbs finished his salad while they were talking; clearing his mouth with a gulp of beer, he said, “I don’t think it’s one person. It has to be several fuckers, bomb builder, muscle, look-outs ... few others. Don’t think it could be less than three or four at minimum. So ... Abby’s got some samples, and she’s working on age. It’s not real damn reliable, but she can get close. Something to do with DNA degeneration. Don’t ask.” He held up a hand. “I don’t understand that fuckin’ shit, an’ you know it.” 

They all shrugged the whole thing off for the night.

Gibbs nodded to Ducky. “Chore list.”

Ducky just said, “Dean, Cos. Trash pick-up and disposal. AJ, Remy. KP. Jet and I will put away. Jimmy, Tim. Make sure the beds are all made up.” Since they’d agreed that Jet, Dean, Cos, and Remy would stay at Mallard Manor for the night, he wanted the spare-room beds made with clean sheets.

The whole group hurried to finish their tasks and head to bed.

.

Gibbs was a slave driver for the next three days. Tim searched every database he could find; the FBI, CIA, ATF, Homeland, and all branches of service gave him access. He hacked a couple of terrorist bases, but nothing showed up. No one was taking credit for the bombings, but there were rumblings at various Dark Web sites. Tim was getting bitchy. It was a good thing Fornell was nearly bald, or he’d be pulling his hair out.

Dean and Cos talked to the bomb techs, but they didn’t know much either. All they could say was, someone was working his way through different bomb types; their take was that it was to find out which ones were most effective.

Tony and Remy went over every scrap of evidence with Abby, but came up with nothing new. Abby was pissed and jumpy; too much tension, not enough information. No one said anything much to her; they were just as much on edge.

Gibbs was sure there was some connection somewhere and drove everyone, himself included, to find it. So far, all they knew was, every bomb was set at a place that had some connection to the military. The Army, Navy, Marines, Air Force, and Coast Guard had all had recruiters at the recruiting drives and one station. The rest of the sites were hangouts or other gathering places.

But that was the only connection they could find. They all retired to bed, pissed, frustrated, and exhausted. 

.

The next day breakfast was breakfast burritos and coffee. They were scarfing it down, much to Ducky’s disgust, when Tony’s phone went off. Anchors Away was his ringtone for Captain Rafe McKinley, the East Coast Commander or his aid Lieutenant Sam Brown. He just barked, “Speak!” then put it on speaker. 

“We’ve got a situation.” Belt didn’t sound a bit happy.

“Okay. What?” Tony didn’t sound happy, either.

“We’re down to one bomb squad in the Greater DC area. One is on the injured list; two are totally exhausted and unable to continue. We’ve got three en route.”

“What about Quantico?”

“No go. They just deployed their new groups, and the rest are scattered all over the continent on external training. They can’t get back inside of 48 hours.”

Tony rubbed his face. “Okay. Put us down as available.”

“Thought you’d say that.”

Tim sighed; he hated this with a passion, but knew there was no way the team would try to get out of the duty. “Okay. What equipment do we have, and what do we need?”

“Bomb box. We’ve got most of what we need, or we can borrow it from somewhere. Mostly we need to ... acquire it.” 

Dean frowned. “And why doesn’t NCIS have its own bomb squad?”

“Quantico supplies as-needed service.” No one jumped when Vance spoke up. “I’ve called around, and they’re going to send their equipment for you. Their three squads are all exhausted from being on duty for so long, and you know damn good and well that their CO isn’t going to let them work tired. And we’re short on men from attrition, and someone knows it.”

Tim, well aware that the average life of a bomb tech was measured in months, said, “Well, damn. That sucks.”

Vance shrugged, “Thank God it’s through mandatory retirement and burnout, instead of mortality. We’ve lost three teams from Quantico that way, and the new teams are either deployed or not up to speed yet. The CO won’t send a half-trained team into the field, no matter what. Don’t blame him, either.”

Tony nodded. “We’ve got it. Where’s the equipment going to be?”

“Down in the evidence garage so you can check it out. I’ll call you when it comes in.”

“Okay.” Tony settled at his desk to send a few emails, then make a call. It wasn’t long before he got the call back. “Digimon. I’ll need you to come down with us when the gear gets here. They’ve got a drone, but it’s one I’m not familiar with.”

Dean, Cos and Remy perked up. A drone could be a life-saver; they could examine the bomb from a distance. If it went off before they could disarm it, all they would lose was the drone and some real estate 

Ten minutes later, Tim was in heaven. “This is great. You can set it to hover, then move the camera independently. Great.”

Vance, who had come down to check the drone out, said, “It’s kinda small, isn’t it?”

Tim shook his head. “Not really. It doesn’t need to be big, as it’s not long-range. It’s got a camera, and that’s all it needs. There’s about three hours’ battery life, but it recharges quickly, about ten minutes or so. Murder on the batteries, but they’re relatively cheap.”

“I see. How maneuverable is it?”

“Turn on a dime and give you eight cents change.” Tim demonstrated, steering the drone around the garage. “If you’re really good, you can use the camera to maneuver, instead of having to have eyes on.”

Tony ambled over. “Got it squared away?”

“Yeah. I’m good.” Tim brought the drone back and started packing it away.

“Great. We’ll deploy from here so we can keep working on the perp. Come on.” Tony walked away with his phone to his ear.

Vance shook his head. “We need to find the maker. Any clues?”

Cos, who’d been helping Tim, grumbled, “Not a one. It’s not a known maker, and the fuckwad hasn’t left a fingerprint or any DNA. We’re working in a dead zone. Fuck.”

Vance sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Well, shit. Do what you can. I’ve got a meeting in MTAC in ...” he glanced at his watch, “ten. We’re still cooperating. The CIA think that this is ISIS. Homeland concurs. The FBI is on a trail, but it’s going cold as we speak. They thought they knew who the maker is but that guy blew himself up six months ago. And now ... you know as much as I do.” He walked off, punching the elevator button for the mezzanine.

Tony, Cos, and Tim took the stairs, laughing as they pushed each other into the walls. 

When they reached their desks, they got the unpleasant news that there’d been another bombing. This time it was at a residence out in a suburb, some tiny place that Tim only found because he had a Google-Maps address. He got a map, and they all headed out to check on the thing.

They arrived at what amounted to a hole in the ground. It had once been a cellar, but was now a still-smoking crater. Gibbs went to speak to the LEO in charge while Tony, Tim, and Remy went to speak with the CSIs. Cos and Dean wandered over to hang with the neighbors.

Twenty minutes later, they were all reporting to Gibbs.

Dean sighed. “The neighbors all agree that John Warren was, as one guy put it, an odd duck. Seems he mailed things a lot, wasn’t real friendly, shopped in the next town over, and took a very dim view of kids in his yard. But they also all agreed that he wasn’t foreign at all; All-American boy.”

Tony nodded, “What he said. The CSIs aren’t willing to say anything on the record, fuckin’ wait for the formal report thing, but they all agree that it was Symtex. Why it blew up? No one’s willing to say, but one tech thought it was damn old; the available taggants are from the late ’90’s. That makes it unstable and really touchy. This makes me real nervous ... where the hell is that fuckin’ stuff that was stolen?”

Tim fiddled with his phone. “Out of the country. Whole other thing. Not our problem. Thank Thor.”

Remy shrugged in that Cajun way of his. “Dat good. But ... me? I don’ like it. We lost th’ only clue t’ where th’ res’ a’ th’ bombs went.”

Gibbs nodded. “The site lead is a good guy, shared. So I did too. But he didn’t have much. He’s had an eye on this place for a couple of months. Thought he was a drug dealer, but couldn’t see big packages coming in, and only shoebox-size stuff going out.” he rubbed his face. “Well, shit.”

They all agreed then went back to their SUV’s to return to NCIS.

On the way, Tony passed out positions on the squad. “I’m point. Remy, Cos; handlers. Dean, Tim; run the drone. Gibbs, site super.”

They arrived at the garage and parked. Tony ordered, “Let’s get things squared away.”

Dean hopped out, trotted over to the bomb-squad van, and rummaged in the back. “Okay. We’ve got no damn snacks. I’ll make a snack run ... should I get more water? There’s only four small fuckin’ bottles. What the actual fuck?”

Tony joined him. “I thought someone was checking this out?”

“I was, but we got called out. And ... by the pricking of my thumbs ... I better hurry.” Dean headed for the snack machines, rummaging in his wallet for money.

It wasn’t long before he was back with a selection of chips, sodas, juice boxes and cookies. Tony thanked him then grumbled, “Would it kill that vendor to put in some energy bars, granola clusters, or some dried fruit?” He poked at the selection, then shrugged. “Oh, well, beggars can’t be choosers.”

Abby’s chirpy voice called, “Oh, yes they can. Here. Dried apple slices, almonds and cranberries. Mango, pecan and ... um ... raisins. Cherries, almonds, and granola clusters and ... um ... sisters made that, so I think it’s Toll House cookies with cranberries, chocolate chips, and walnuts.” She passed over a grocery bag full of small vacuum-sealed packs. “I was making them up for a stash you could dip into ... to keep in my office ... but I heard someone say Dean was buying snacks. I kept about half of it and all the energy bars and drink powder. So ... here.”

Gibbs took the sack, kissed Abby on the cheek and said, “Thanks, Abs, you’re a real treasure.”

The rest of the pod took a turn at hugging Abby which made her smile. “Oh, and Jimmy is coming down to check out the med kit. Ducky said.”

“I’m here.” Jimmy trotted over to the group, Ducky right on his heels.

Ducky added, “As am I. Jimmy is going to do the grunt work while I supervise.”

Remy grinned. “Merci, Ducky. Might be we need som’tin’ an’ no ‘ave it.”

“Not when we’re done. I assure you that you will be properly supplied.”

Jimmy had already gotten into the truck and was pulling the whole kit out. He put it on a table that Cos and Dean helpfully put up for him and opened it. “Well, it’s not too bad. There’s a lot of stuff you might need but ... I’d like more Quick-clot bandages and some of that silver ion cream.” He called out a count of everything in the kit while Ducky checked it off a standard checklist. 

Ducky checked things off. then nodded. “Excellent! You’re quite well supplied, but Jimmy is right. You need a few things in addition. I think they ought to be standard, but what do I know ... I’m just a physician with forty-some-odd years’ experience.”

Gibbs made a scoffing sound. “Yeah, right. Why not send an email to Belt with suggestions? I’m sure he’ll be delighted to implement them. Man’s no dummy.” 

Jimmy trotted off to get the missing supplies while Ducky began repacking the kit. It wasn’t long before Jimmy returned with the things, and they had the whole kit finished and put away.

Vance showed up to check on them, and told them that they were keeping the truck, as NCIS was now authorized to have their own bomb squad by SecNav. He added, “And it looks like you guys are it for the foreseeable future. Sorry.” He left again to return to his office and continue the search for the rest of the bombs. It seemed that their bomb-maker was paranoid about anyone finding his records on his computer or in the house, so they were all in the Cloud. Tim and one of the other computer forensicists had found them all after a lot of searching.

.

Tony was lounging at his desk, trying to decide whether to try another tack or wait for someone to call him. They were still trying to find all the bombs. There were still three in the wind. And they were on their own; the task force had been dissolved with the death of the bomb maker, which no one was pleased about, but TPTB had said.

Remy had Dean, Ducky, and Cos at his desk playing cards, with Gibbs kibitzing. Jimmy was down in Autopsy, getting a body ready for Ducky. 

Remy’s phone rang, so he punched the speaker button and said, “Remy. Speak.”

Jimmy replied, “I’ve finished. Ducky can come down and start any time he’s ready.”

“I’m on my way. My hand was wretched anyway.” Ducky threw his hand down and got up. “Thank you for the game.” And with that, he headed for the elevator.

Ten seconds later, Tony’s phone rang. “Speak.”

“Gear up. Bomb at Potomac Mills Mall. No eyes, no ears. Someone spotted something. Mall Security verified. Man is retired ordnance. Move out.”

There was an impressive scramble to get to the stairs; no one took an elevator in a situation like this.

.

The Bomb Squad was on its way in seconds. There were two vehicles and a trailer to get to the scene, the ambulance-like squad truck and the half-ton crew cab pickup with its bomb-box trailer. Gibbs drove the pickup with Dean, Cos, and Tim, while Remy drove the squad truck with Tony at his side.

It took them a bit longer than they liked to get to the site. There were two roadblocks set up, and it took a show of creds and some fast checking to get them in. No one was that upset about it; it showed that the LEOs were taking this seriously.

When they got to the actual entrance, they were met by the crime-scene supervisor, in this case a Lt. Simon Bates; he directed them to a different area and gave directions to Remy while standing on the running boards. He gave them a rundown as they went.

“So. I get here and the Mall Security Supervisor tells me that some damn idiot just picked it up and carried it out to the back parking lot. I tell you, they get dumber by the second.”

Tony choked on his own spit. “You’re kiddin’ me. Seriously?”

“Seriously. God must love stupid, he made so much of it. It’s over there. We cleared most of the cars an’ shit away by demanding keys and then letting the owners leave, or drivin’ them over there.” He pointed to the back of the parking lot.

They parked at a hopefully safe distance from the backpack and got out. Tony took a small monocular out of a pocket and examined the pack as best he could. “Tim, got the drone set up yet?”

“I’m workin’ on it. There’s signal problems.” He looked around. “We’re surrounded by fuckin’ high-tension lines. They create a form of EMF interference. I think I can get it working with a little fiddlin’.” He messed with the controller and the drone. “There. I managed to filter out the frequency.”

Tony sighed. “Okay. Get eyes on that thing.”

Tim got the drone in the air and approached the pack. “Not much to tell you. No visible wires, no open pockets. It’s gonna have t’ be examined by hand.” Disgruntled, Tim returned the drone and set it down next to his feet.

Remy just snarled. “An’ we doan ‘ave a robot.”

Tim agreed, “No, we don’t. I’ll solve that problem within a week.”

“How y’ goan do dat.”

“Build one.”

While Remy and Tim had been bitching, Tony had been gearing up. Vance had insisted on a full bomb-suit, which Tony agreed with; the seventy-five or so pounds the thing weighed was nothing to him, but it did take the help of Remy, Cos, and Dean to get him into it. They did a radio check and found that, while the feed was scratchy and full of static, they could understand him.

“Thanks. See ya.” Tony plodded over to the bomb and carefully checked the bag. His voice came over the com. “I don’t think the zip is wired, but I’m going to cut the bag anyway.”

Gibbs replied, “Do. I do not want you WIA or DOG because you got cocky.”

Tony put out his tool roll, pulled from a thigh pocket on the armor, and unrolled it. He took the box cutter and carefully slit the bag about an inch from the zip and slowly eased it open. “Well, fuck. Whoever built this thing is not only a BDI but also a WOMBAT. Jackwad. Damnit.” He took a pair of wire cutters and did things no one could see because both his hands were in the bag.

Finally he stood up. “Okay. Safe. Bring the box.”

Remy got in the pickup and brought the bomb box around. Tony picked up the pack and carefully climbed onto the trailer to put it gently inside and close and lock the lid. “Clear.”

Remy drove away with the trailer, headed for Quantico and a disposal site. Dean and Cos helped Tony out of his gear, much to his relief. He was hot. 

Gibbs snarled. “Fuck. No damn signal. I need to ...” He looked up when Tony, Dean, Tim, and Cos started laughing. They sounded on the edge of hysteria. 

“What?”

“Never bitch about a dead zone again, I swear.”

Tony handed Gibbs the old Nokia he had been holding. Gibbs looked at it and sighed. The message on the screen read:

 

1:  
Missed  
Call

 

.  
AU: Look at a cell dead zone map of the state. It’s seriously fucked up. The whole state is littered with red dots. Not to mention the Quiet Zone. The National Radio Astronomy Observatory at Green Bank. Look it up. Seriously.

A tip is the point of a sandwich bag. You put drugs in it then twist it tightly and tear it off. You can also do the same thing with saran wrap.

In some police departments ‘doing the dirty’ is the sometimes nasty job of strip-searching the prisoner and issuing them an orange jumpsuit. Many departments also insist on a shower and shampoo, shave and, in some cases, a good spray with lice solution. 

ETKM - every test known (to) man (sorry, this is the official acronym― Jake looked it up once some years back.)  
BDI – brain-dead individual  
WOMBAT - waste of money, brains, and time.


End file.
